Once a Prince
by Chaoslace
Summary: [PoR] Two years after the end of the war, an old ally returns to meet with Soren. They wind up going on a journey across the continent, while Ike rushes to catch up. IxS eventually.
1. Chapter 1: Lost

It was a cold, clear night, and heavy frost crunched beneath Soren's feet as he crossed the blackness that blanketed their camp. The hour was late, and the new moon provided little light, but his stride didn't falter - Soren had sharp eyes that could see far in the dark, a fact that many did not know and which he did not care to advertise. Tonight, however, he hadn't even bothered with the pretense of a lantern. He wore a dark, heavy cloak that served the dual purpose of keeping him warm and concealing his identity as he stole away to the forest's edge. The note that bade him there was creased and folded into the pages of a book - a worn Elwind tome that still had some punch left in it - that was in turn concealed in the many layers of his clothing. Soren was many things, but stupid was not one of them, and he knew better than to attend a mysterious late-night rendezvous unarmed.

He reached his destination without incident. It was at the foot of the tallest tree for leagues - an ancient white oak that seemed to curl out of the ground, its trunk as bent and withered as that of an old man. The camp was still in sight, but Soren derived no sense of security from it. The night watch would be changing shifts soon, leaving a fifteen-minute window in their patrols. That this meeting happened to coincide with that exact time had not escaped his attention.

No one was there. He stood casually, trying not to reveal the deadly spellbook he held at the ready. If anyone did mean him harm, it wouldn't do to let them know he was aware of it. All the better to seem innocent and bait out the truth. For once he found himself grateful for his youthful face and slight build.

He tried to count the time while he waited. It was probably no more than three minutes by his reckoning when a figure emerged from the shadows of the forest. A familiar figure, one that matched the name on the note he had received. That much at least had been true.

Soren turned his garnet eyes on the older man. "Volke," he said simply.

The assassin smirked. Soren noted with some suspicion that he wasn't wearing his usual mask. "Good evening," he said, folding his arms and approaching at a casual pace. Everything about his demeanor exuded calculated nonchalance. "Been a while."

"Almost two years now," Soren confirmed. He had been working on his social niceties of late, so he added a compulsory "How have you been?"

Volke blinked for a moment, his eyes glittering in the darkness. Seemed he didn't need a lantern either. "How polite," he remarked with a low chuckle. "They've been training you well."

Soren scowled. He didn't need this. "Fine. You don't like to talk, and I don't like to talk to you. So let's get on with it."

"Now that's the Soren I knew and had absolutely no opinion of."

The sage shifted, adjusting the book beneath his cloak. He still had no sense of whether Volke was friend or foe, and even when they had been traveling together there was no love lost between them. When Ike had told him about the assassin's true purpose, Soren had very nearly torched both of them with the nearest available spellbook. Thankfully there had been nothing in reach but a Light tome, which he had resorted to throwing at his best friend along with a whole lot of very nasty words. As far as he was concerned it was a big waste of money on Ike's part, since if anyone ever raised a hand to him while Soren was around, they'd very quickly find themselves reduced to a smoking crater in the ground. Whether or not they had a previous arrangement was completely irrelevant.

It had been months before they stopped bickering about that one. Soren won, of course. He usually did.

Volke's contract ended with the war, and he disappeared from their lives for nearly two years. So when Soren had found a note from him, scrawled on greasy parchment and stuck under his door, inviting him a secret meeting in the middle of the night, he had some rather understandable reservations. We need to talk, it had said. It's about Ike.

"So tell me," Soren spoke, his voice ringing slightly in the crisp night air, "what you have to tell me. Very soon the guards will be coming around, and I believe they will make far better company than the likes of you."

Volke tilted his head curiously and tugged on a gold chain that peeked out of his fitted coat. The tips of his fingers stuck out of modified gloves - to allow for thieving dexterity, no doubt - and produced an ornate pocket watch. It snapped open and Soren could hear the faint ticking crystal clear in the silence between them. "Oh my," the assassin remarked, quirking an eyebrow in mild surprise. "Seems I was late. Well, suppose I should hurry this up anyway." He snapped the watch closed, but Soren noticed with growing alarm that the hypnotic sound of the ticking clock did not diminish. In fact, it somehow seemed to grow louder, echoing back and forth inside of his head and occupying his every thought. His eyes opened wide as he struggled to move, to make his mouth open and enunciate the words of the spellbook in his hands. No sound emerged.

"Nice, isn't it?" Volke remarked, advancing on the young sage. "One of my most useful aquisitions. It's enchanted, of course. I'm sure you've noticed by now that you can neither move nor speak, and certainly not handle that weapon you're carrying."

Inwardly, Soren raged. It had been a trap. He must have intended to separate Soren from Ike - for all of his planning and consideration, he had never thought of that possibility. His hands quivered in anger, fingers locked around the binding of the Elwind tome. His mind was too fragmented by the enchantment to cast any magic, but through pure force of will he brought himself to speak.

"What... do... you want... with... Ike...?" he hissed through his teeth. His eyes burned like candles in the dark as he watched the assassin approach him.

"Don't worry about Ike." Volke looked almost bored as he produced a thin phial from one of his many pockets and held it uncorked in front of the sage's nose. Soren held his breath for as long as possible before he had to take a gasp of the strangely odorless substance. Immediately, his world grew dim and blurry. He sagged and Volke caught him easily, hefting him up and over one shoulder. The last thing he heard was the rustling of bushes and Volke's mild admonition. "This has nothing to do with him. Nothing at all."

_Oh_, he thought, as consciousness finally slipped away from him. _At least that's something._

_

* * *

_  
"Boyd, have you seen Soren?"

The mercenary stopped hacking at a tree trunk long enough to turn and give Ike an incredulous look. "You mean he's not with you?"

"No, I haven't seen him since last night." Around them, the camp was fairly quiet. The morning was cool but clear, and many of the mercenaries were either out on missions or traveling before the first snow hit. Quite a few had left without much, or any, notice, but Soren's disappearance concerned him. Ike knew better than anyone how particular he was about his schedule. You could practically set your clock by the guy. Not to mention Ike couldn't remember the last time Soren traveled without him.

"Huh," Boyd said helpfully, then hefted his axe and turned back to the badly mutilated tree. A few decisive chops later, a sizable chunk of wood fell to the group with a muted thump. Ike noticed that a pile of similar pieces littered the ground at their feet. "Then I can't help ya. It's like asking where the sun is if it didn't rise. How would I know? It's just... always been there."

"So you see why I'm... uh, worried..." _Thwack_. Another chunk of wood fell to the ground. "Um. Boyd, what exactly are you doing?"

"I'm carving a life-sized sculpture of Titania into this tree." He beamed and took a step back to admire his work, which if you squinted looked enough like a human to be mildly unsettling.

"I didn't know she was so... angular."

"Hey, it's a work in progress!" he said defensively. He patted the sculpture on something that might have been its butt, or possibly elbows. "Do you think she'll like it?"

Ike sighed and tried very hard not to think about the amorous gleam in Boyd's eyes. "Not really. No."

"Yeah, me too," the mercenary grinned eagerly. "I think she'll love it."

"Boyd, are you even -"

"Commanderrrr!" Ike was interrupted by a sudden call. He looked around, momentarily disoriented, until it came again and he thought to look up. High above them, the long, muscular wings of a wyvern flapped and blotted out the sun. He squinted and held one hand in front of his eyes in an attempt to identify the rider, but it was too hard to see in the midday glare. He made a mental note to follow up on that request to make all the flying mounts wear color-coded vests for identification. Sometimes he was lucky if he could even figure out which side they were on.

"Whaaaaat?" he called out, cupping his hands around his mouth. The rider dipped lower and a flash of green armor identified it as one of the Crimean soldiers on loan from Elincia. Ike squinted and saw that he was waving what looked like a very battered lance.

"What's going on with Soren?" the man called back. "The weapon stock wasn't refilled this morning! I came across two pirates on patrol and my lance broke of all things! First time that's ever happened"

"We don't know either!" Ike shouted. "He must have gone out without telling anyone"

The soldier looked from Ike to Boyd and back again. "Who, Soren? Naaah, impossible! You can set your clock by that guy!"

Ike frowned. He was right. So was Boyd. It was simply unlike Soren to leave without at least some notice. When Ike had stopped by his room earlier that morning, nothing had been out of place, and there were no signs of packing. Either he was close by somewhere, or he was off getting in some serious trouble. Ike decided it was time to figure out which one it was.

"New orders!" he called out. "Collect any flying units still at the base! I want you to spread out and search the surrounding area for Soren, got that?"

The rider nodded and saluted, then jerked back on the reins and sailed up into higher air. The wyvern gave a sharp, keening cry before banking right and heading towards the center of camp. Ike looked back to Boyd.

"Want me to help, Ike?" The mercenary wore an unusually serious expression. "I can move pretty quickly through the forest."

"Not as quickly as the flying units," Ike responded. "I'll give them one hour to see if he's out picking berries or something. If there's no sign of him, I'll put together search parties. Wait until you hear from me." He turned and strode purposefully back into the camp, his hands already working to tighten the straps of his armor.

Boyd watched him go. Ike's sudden upshift into 'commander mode' didn't escape his notice. Boyd was one of few people who understood what Soren meant to him. They had been friends for so long they were like family - like more than family. He didn't particularly want to see Ike after a couple of days without the sage. He remembered what it had been like when Soren went off to study - Greil had taken to going on long missions just to get away from all the melancholy moping around the house.

Boyd sighed and let his axe rest comfortably on his shoulder. His sculpture would have to wait - Titania wouldn't be getting back for several days anyway. Better to focus on the current situation and get it resolved quickly before Ike got it into his head to go and do something crazy himself.

Somehow, he didn't put it past the man at all.


	2. Chapter 2: Secrets

A/N: Many thanks to the members of the feyaoi LJ community, who have been helping immensely with this fic. You guys are great.

Six hours later, every mercenary Ike could round up had been mobilized into the forest surrounding their camp. Most worked in pairs, fanning out around the perimeter and looking for trampled grass, singed bushes - anything that could indicate the whereabouts of the missing sage. The search stretched on with very little to report, and the winter sun was already beginning to sink to the horizon, taking the hopes of many along with it. Two resident swordmasters found themselves turning over rocks underneath a giant oak tree, partially because it offered some shelter from the increasingly biting wind, and partially because it made them harder for Ike to see. He had co-opted Oscar's horse and was using it to ride around the camp and tear into anyone he thought was slacking off.

"Brr... I'm freezing!" Mia hugged herself and bundled her thin coat tighter around her shoulders. "What's the point of all this, anyway? I don't even know what we're supposed to be looking for."

"Clues," sighed Zihark, poking at the ground with a long steel sword. "We're looking for clues."

"Great. What's the mystery?" The girl sniffed and rubbed her reddening nose with one mittened hand. "Geez, I think I'm getting a cold."

"Weren't you listening? Soren disappeared last night."

"So what!" she exclaimed. "Lots of people do that! We're at less than half enlistment since everyone's traveling and stuff. So he forgot to leave a note. Big deal." She kicked sullenly at a rock and watched it skitter across a blanket of dead leaves.

Zihark speared his sword into the ground and rubbed his hands together. "You might have a point, but Soren's number two around here. Imagine if Ike just up and disappeared. The whole camp would shut down."

Mia eyed the commander, who was chewing out a couple of nearby knights. "Hmph! Right about now I don't think that would be so bad."

"Hah!" Zihark snorted. "Right. You know you love him."

The smaller swordmaster whirled on him, blushing hotly. "It's not like that!" she exclaimed. "He's just really cool, that's all! And he helps me train so I can beat up ignorant jerks like you." She stabbed a wooly finger into Zihark's chest.

He rolled his eyes and drew his sword out of the ground. "Fine, whatever. Let's at least try to look busy, okay?" He went back to shuffling the sticky pile of dead leaves around. It would have been hard enough to find useful traces without the wind picking up and pulling all the leaves off the trees, even if it was really quite pretty. Of course, he thought, glancing sideways at Mia, even pretty things can be pretty damn annoying.

He sighed laboriously when she squealed, but much to his surprise it turned out she actually had something useful to say. "Zihark! Look!" she tromped over to him, the damp undergrowth squishing beneath her feet. At first he thought she was just holding a dead leaf, but upon closer inspection it was actually a small piece of folded parchment. He took it from her carefully.

"Where did you find this?" he asked, trying to find a way to unfold it without it disintegrating completely.

"Over there on the ground. I was kicking up leaves and it stuck to my shoe."

He looked at her incredulously. "Are you always this lucky?"

"Well, I do have many lucky charms!" The girl beamed and held out one wrist ornamented with many jangling bangles and knick-knacks, half of which he couldn't even describe. "So I bet I'm a lot luckier than most people. Certainly you." He wrinkled his nose in irritation and was about to reply when she shuffled closer and looked over his shoulder. "So is it a clue?"

Zihark looked down at the parchment in his hands. It was soaked through, but the paper was greasy enough that the writing inside might still be legible. "It might be," he admitted. "But we have to be very careful not to tear it." Figuring few people in the camp would have defter hands than he or Mia, he went ahead and set to the task himself. The paper crinkled ominously as he ran his fingers along the edges. They both held their breath as he very slowly opened up the page.

"There's writing," Mia whispered breathlessly. "Can you read it?"

"Ssh, I'm trying." Zihark squinted in the fading light. "It's not too badly smudged. Good thing whoever wrote this was cheap enough to reuse butcher's paper." He struggled to read the scrawled handwriting. "Soren. We need to... folk? No, talk. We need to talk. It's about Ike. Meet me at the... old oak tree at midnight." He looked up in sudden realization.

"Zihark! That's where we are now!" Mia exclaimed. "Soren must have been here last night! Can you read the rest?"

He tried for several minutes, but finally sighed and shook his head. "The last few sentences got wet and the ink bled into the paper. It's impossible to read."

Mia frowned in disappointment. "So how does this help us?"

"I don't know," Zihark admitted, "but I think Ike is going to be very happy to see it."

"Happy?"

A trace of sympathy passed over the swordmaster's features. "Well, as happy as he can be right now"

* * *

For the first time in a very long time, Ike was alone. 

The night continued to wear on. Waning sunlight had brought the investigation to a halt, and most of the mercenaries had returned to the camp. But it was still oddly quiet, as everyone was taking great pains to give him plenty of space. And he couldn't shake the feeling that some of them weren't holding out much hope. He could tell by the way they avoided his eyes.

But he wouldn't give in to that. Soren might be in trouble, but he was a survivor. Ike knew that better than anyone. He had to have faith in his friend right now.

Someone approached from behind and he turned. It was Zihark and Mia, and Zihark was carrying something that looked very much like a piece of paper.

"Did you find something?"

"Yes, commander," the swordmaster replied, holding out the delicate parchment. "Be careful with it, though. We found it outside by the old oak tree, and it's quite damp." He waited patiently while Ike scanned the note.

"...Who sent this?" he finally asked. "I can't read all of it."

"We can't either," Zihark replied. "But at least it gives us some idea of what happened, and where Soren was last night."

"Mmm," the commander said thoughtfully. "This smells like bait to me. And I don't think that's because it was once wrapped around a fish." He shook his head, a little smile appearing on his face. _Soren is much too smart to fall for something like this. It must have been... that they mentioned my name..._ He tried to put the thought away, but it hung around and threatened to make him happy despite himself.

"But who's the fisherman?" Mia piped up. "Can you recognize the handwriting?"

"It's pretty distinctive," Ike admitted. "Now that you mention it, I do feel like I've seen it before. No idea where though."

"Why don't we go through Soren's records? We might find something. Maybe it was someone we've worked with before." Zihark started off towards Soren's room, but Ike stopped him with a surprisingly firm hand on his arm.

"No! I mean... no." Ike shook his head. "I, uh... I'd rather be the only one that goes in there. I'll look through the logs myself."

Zihark and Mia exchanged quick glances, then nodded obediently. "Then if there's nothing else we can do..." Mia trailed off hopefully.

"Oh. Right. Thanks for your hard work. Go get some dinner or something." Ike dismissed them with one hand, already turning to make his way towards Soren's room. It was the only place he hadn't searched yet, but he wouldn't let anyone else do it either. He didn't really know why - it just upset him to think about anyone else in that room. Probably because Soren was so particular about the place when he was around. Ike was one of very few people who had ever seen the inside of it, and he kind of wanted to keep it that way.

When he reached the familiar wooden door, he hesitated for a moment before drawing out his master key and setting it in the lock. A heavy click echoed through the hall and the door scraped on its hinges as he pushed it open. The room inside was dark and quiet. He let the door fall closed behind him and stepped inside onto one of Soren's prized possessions - a plush and ornately detailed rug that stretched nearly to all four walls. It had been a gift from Leanne, and Ike believed she had even made it herself, although it was very hard for him to tell if that's what she really said. At least Soren was able to communicate with her, if even just a little.

A pang of regret struck his heart and he drew his eyes away from the floor. He had to keep himself focused on the task at hand. One foot in front of the other, that was what Greil had always taught him, wasn't it?

"Right," he said out loud to the empty room. "First I'll need some light."

He fumbled around in the dark until he found the round reading table with the lantern. He opened up the small box there and picked out a piece of kindling, striking it against the rough underside of the lid. He used the resulting flame to light the wick of the lamp, and soon the room was filled with a warm yellow glow.

Soren's preference to keep others out of his room was understandable. He had several worktables covered with magical contraptions that were no doubt exceedingly dangerous, and his bookshelves were home to the company's collection of truly powerful tomes. These were locked under enchanted glass, and Ike knew that Soren kept one of two existing keys on a chain around his wrist. The other rested safely on Ike's key ring. He always insisted that you never could be too safe. He hardly even trusted himself to use those books.

Ike strode over the shelf that contained all of their records for the mercenary group. They were color-coded by date, and he was quite familiar with them. They had spent many nights toiling over those books in the dim lamplight, Soren's pen scritching out calculations and reconciliations while Ike puzzled over maps and tactical manuals. More than once he had found himself marvelling that his father had done all the work of running the mercenary group alone.

He reached out to run his fingers over the soft leather spines of the books. An entire history was contained in those shelves. With a strange sense of nostalgia he passed over the records Greil had left behind, then the set of travel logs that marked the year of the war. After that were the usual monthly reports, slim sets of pages bound into bi-annual units at the end of each year. A small smile crept to his face as he read the labels written out in Soren's careful handwriting.

He finally came to the end of the row, a massive blue-bordered binder stuffed with their entire history of enlistment. Notes stuck out every which way, detailing contracts that were up for renewal, deaths and injuries, compensation, and promotions. He pulled it out with no small effort, marvelling that Soren managed to carry the thing at all. He set it down gently on the table and took a seat.

He flipped past the first few hundred pages, which were records from his father's time. A braided bookmark and a change of handwriting indicated the beginning of Ike's reign as commander, where the first entry was marked in that familiar, deliberate lettering.

_Name: Soren. Specialty: Lore. Appointment: Indefinite._

Ike smiled and looked at the only accompanying note, a mark in red ink that indicated the date and occasion of his promotion. "Indefinite, huh?" he murmured to himself, running his fingers over the page. "You always were too persistent for your own good."

With that, he flipped the page determinedly and started down the list of new recruits. He compared their signatures to the lettering on the parchment. It wasn't much, but it was something, and after several hours of slaving over those pages he had compiled a list of about a dozen potential candidates. Unfortunately, none of them really jumped out at him, and he was about to write the whole matter off as a failure when something very important occurred to him: this was not the only roster they had.

Soren kept a secret log, one of few books that had survived from Greil's time. That was where they kept records of all of their less savory contracts - assassins, shady dealers, mysterious clients. Ike swiftly got to his feet, taking a moment to stretch out limbs and joints more accustomed to sparring than sitting hunched over a book. It had been a long time since he'd seen the slim volume, and he frankly didn't have the first idea where to look for it. He put his hands on his hips and looked around the room thoughtfully.

There was the bookshelf containing the logs - Ike had already been through that though, and besides, it was far too obvious. The glass case containing the high-powered spellbooks was an interesting possibility, but Ike seriously doubted Soren would keep it in such an inaccessible place. Next to that there was another bookshelf, this one laden with Soren's personal collection of magic tomes. Yellow bindings marked the thunder spells, red marked fire, and green... Ike paused. It was hard to tell if you weren't looking directly at it, but one of the wind tomes was definitely missing. He strode over and poked his fingers in the gap where the book used to be. Sure enough, there wasn't a speck of dust.

"That's interesting," he mused, feeling a little better for the knowledge that whatever had happened to Soren, at least he had a weapon with him. One he could be pretty damn deadly with.

Aside from the missing book there was nothing out of the ordinary about the collection of magic spells. He didn't want to go near Soren's worktables, hoping that the man would have had the sense to keep important records out of range of combustibles anyway. That just left the table, which was bare save for the lamp and tinder box, the bed, a small ceramic basin and the wooden chest that contained Soren's clothes and personal effects. Deciding that was the most likely candidate, Ike crossed the room and knelt down in front of it.

The chest had actually belonged to Greil, but Soren had salvaged it from what remained of their base after the war. Ike ran his hands over the solid wood, following a row of iron rivets to what looked to be a very solid lock. The mercenary leader frowned. He was hesitant to just break the thing off, but he had to admit to himself that he didn't know any other way in. After a few moments of thought, he pulled out his master key and tentatively touched it to the keyhole. Much to his surprise, it slid in easily and the lock snapped open. Ike chuckled to himself as he lifted the heavy lid. His father hadn't been kidding when he'd said the key would open any lock in their base.

The inside of the chest was more or less unexciting, but then Soren didn't tend to keep around unnecessary things. There were several spare robes, a traveling cloak, and a small collection of personal effects; a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a seashell he had collected somewhere, and a matching pair of handkerchiefs. Ike sifted through the silks and linens carefully, trying not to disturb too much. He felt strange enough being wrist deep in a bundle of Soren's undergarments. He was about to give up when he felt his fingers settle on something hard-edged and angular. Peering in, he pushed aside the pile of clothes and found two small, unassuming volumes sitting on the floor of the box. He grabbed them both and got to his feet victoriously.

Both books were unlabeled; one was bound in green leather and the other in red. Ike plopped down on Soren's bed, tossing the red one to the side and settling against the wall as he flipped open the volume in his hands. The first page was blank. The second bore only Soren's name, and a few lines below that, the word "Journal" in ornamental script.

Ike stopped. Soren's journal? Soren kept a journal? His hand hovered over the book, his desire to read on warring with respect for his friend's privacy.

It turned out he was a weak man, and he turned the page.

The journal actually started just before the beginning of the war, when Soren was studying with the mercenary band in Crimea. It mostly detailed Soren's experiences there, his feelings about local politics, his lessons learned and conversations with the other mercenaries. Occasionally there were references to earlier journals, but Ike hadn't seen them in the chest and didn't know where Soren was keeping them. He wondered how long the boy had been keeping a journal - years? His whole life? He found himself overwhelmed with curiosity. As a child, Ike could never be bothered to write down his experiences, and now that so many years had passed in the interim he wanted to rediscover the secrets of their past. Did Soren's journals contain things that had long since slipped from his memory?

He resolved to tell Soren what he had done, apologize profusely for violating his privacy, and then beg shamelessly to be allowed to read the others. As far as he was concerned, it was only the proper thing to do.

Ike read quickly, skimming past whatever was too technical or mundane. About ten pages in, the tone of the diary began to change. Soren's concern over the rapidly mounting political tensions between Crimea and Daein became the sole focus of his entries. _King Crimea has become far too vocal in his support of the sub-humans,_ he wrote. _The people are growing uncomfortable, and I fear that Daein may be turning its eyes towards our borders. Now is not the time for Crimea to show weakness or offer any excuse for invasion._

The next entry was a few days later. Ike noticed the ink was smudged in several places and the handwriting was sloppy. _I am currently riding back to Greil's camp_, it said. _It is much worse than even I feared. The capital is burning and Daein marches against us. The others would not flee with me, though I offered them safety and asylum in our own group. I am sure that by now they are lost._

Ike turned the page, his mouth set in a grim line. Those mercenaries had indeed been lost, quickly overwhelmed by the tides of war that engulfed the capital. Soren had known that. He must have seen the same fate for Greil's Mercenaries, and if he hadn't fled to warn them, it may well have been.

The next few entries were hardly more than status updates on his journey from Crimea. He traveled for nearly two days straight, and on the day that he returned there were only two short sentences. _I have reunited with Greil's Mercenaries_, and _Ike is okay_.

Then there was nothing. Not even so much as the date was written in until nearly two weeks later. The next entry was written on a fresh page, and the handwriting was so meticulous as to seem almost pained. _Today we have a new commander_, it read. _Greil is gone. I have... no words to describe how I feel in this matter. Suffice it to say, he was the closest thing I have ever had to a father, and I will miss him._

There was a break in the paragraph and Ike could almost hear Soren taking a deep breath as he wrote it. _I tried to offer some comfort to Ike, but he has held up surprisingly well. I... am proud of him. He has to command an army now, and war is almost upon us. There will be no sanctuary in Gallia. He must know this. As much as I want to hold him while he cries, like I did when we were children, I know that he is beyond tears. He has to be. Maybe someday, when this is all over, if we both survive... we can sit together and talk... about what Greil meant to us._

Ike closed his eyes and shut the book in his lap. He let his head fall back to rest against the wall. "We never did have that conversation..." he murmured, folding his hands on top of the diary. Suddenly he felt horribly guilty for reading it at all. Somehow that last page had just seemed so... intimate.

"I'm sorry," he said to no one in particular, sitting up and setting the diary to one side. He rubbed his eyes and picked up the other book. He opened it slowly, as though he were afraid of what its contents might be. This one, however, was much less personal.

_Greil's Red Book_, the title page read in his father's chicken-scratch handwriting. _To be hidden from prying eyes_.

Ike flipped through the pages, mildly curious what his father's secret contracts were like. He found that he didn't recognize any of the names, however, save for one...

He blinked. He scooped up the book and bounded off the bed and across the room to where the parchment lay. His eyes went from the writing there to the signature in the book many times before closing the cover with a laborious sigh. If he was right about who the culprit was, his life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.


	3. Chapter 3: Magic

Soren slept for a long, long time, and when he finally woke he felt as though the inside of his head was stuffed with wool. "Ohh..." he moaned softly, clenching his eyes shut against the sudden and intensely painful onslaught of sunlight.

"Good morning," Volke said gruffly from somewhere to his side. For a moment, Soren was very confused to hear the assassin's voice, until he tried to sit up and found himself rather efficiently bound in place. He cracked his eyes open and saw that he was lying on a planked wooden deck. A sudden nauseating lurch to one side and the sound of rushing water told him that he probably wasn't in Crimea anymore.

Light footsteps approached, and a hand on the ropes around his arms tugged him into a sitting position. His head throbbed, but his stomach settled a bit and he opened his eyes fully to glare at his captor. Volke ignored him and held out a canteen. "Open up," he ordered.

"Like hell," Soren rasped. The ship lurched again and he winced.

Volke sighed. "Look," he said, waving the canteen. "It's just water. If I wanted you dead, do you think we'd be having this conversation right now?"

"Then perhaps I should die just to spite you."

The assassin said nothing, simply held out the canteen until Soren growled and opened his mouth hungrily. Volke held the nozzle to his lips and let him suck the whole bottle dry. It was indeed just water, and very few things had ever tasted sweeter.

Volke stood and tossed the empty canteen to one side. He hopped up a short set of stairs and settled onto the railing, the sea breeze ruffling his hair and tossing one end of his scarf up into the air as he looked out over the ocean. Soren craned his neck and tried to catch a glimpse of the coast in the distance.

"Can I ask what this is all about?" he finally asked, after determining that they were probably traveling south. They appeared to be several days' sail beyond the Gallian border, which didn't make sense to him - there was no way he had been unconscious for that long.

Volke produced a long-stemmed pipe from somewhere in his coat. He struck a match against the bowl and his eyes shone momentarily as the flame flared to life. After a long draw and a thoughtful pause, he turned to look at Soren, almost as if he had forgotten the man was there.

"I don't ask questions like that," he said plainly. "I just ask who and how much."

Soren gritted his teeth. "Fine," he said. "Then who hired you? You must know that. And why aren't I dead?"

Volke shrugged. "They're a special client, and they want you alive. Kidnapping isn't usually my area of expertise, but if the price is right..."

"And it was?"

"Evidently."

Soren smirked grimly. "I'm sure you'll understand if I'm less than enthusiastic about the situation."

Volke chuckled and said nothing. Soren gave him a probing look, but he had turned away and was focused intently on the horizon again. He chewed the end of his pipe thoughtfully and Soren doubted he would get any more information out of him.

He took a deep breath and resumed his study of their surroundings. They were definitely following the coast south, and the ship they were on was a good one - it moved almost unnaturally swiftly through the water, and it occured to him for the first time that they were alone on it. No crew, no captain, just Volke and the captive sage. So who was sailing the ship? His mind mulled over this for a while before he thought of something he had read a long time ago.

"I have another question," he spoke up, breaking the long silence between them.

"Mmm?" Volke murmured, not taking his eyes off the ocean.

"What does Goldoa want with me?"

The assassin jerked his head around, his eyes narrowing to slits. "How do you know I'm taking you to Goldoa?"

"Deduction," Soren said. He squirmed uncomfortably against his bonds. "I'll tell you how I figured it out if you untie my hands."

"Not going to happen."

"Where's my spellbook?"

"At the bottom of the ocean."

Soren smirked. "Then I'm not much of a threat to you, am I?"

Volke had to concede this fact, and he grumbled as much while he freed the sage of his restraints. "Fine. Happy?"

"Not really," Soren said, rubbing his sore wrists. He stood and stretched out his limbs. Above them, the sun was beginning to sink in the sky, and he estimated they only had a few more hours of light before dark. "You know, I'm amazed you managed to get access to one of these ships. I thought there were none of them left."

"Ahh, so that's how you figured it out. I should have known." Volke took a draw from his pipe and let it out slowly, long tendrils of smoke curling out over the water. "Impressive, isn't it?"

Soren had to admit that it was. There was only one type of ship he knew of that could sail itself; a Goldoan caravel, and they had not been seen since the nation closed its borders. Wonders of magic and engineering, the lightweight ships were once used for regular trade routes. Take one anywhere and it would always find its way back to Goldoa, and swifter than anything else on the ocean. "I assume even you would never be able to obtain such a thing for your own personal use," he commented.

Volke smirked. "It's on loan."

Soren turned and leaned over the railing, his long hair trailing behind him in the wind. He looked down the length of the ship at the many arcane symbols and decorations carved into the side. It was really quite beautiful, and he nearly forgot his predicament in the excitment of seeing it in action. Who in Goldoa would even know of his existence, much less go to this much trouble to bring him there - and what possible purpose could they have? He was beginning to feel more like a reluctant ambassador than a kidnapping victim.

Of course, maybe he was, and this whole fiasco was just a really, really botched attempt at diplomacy. He sighed and wondered for a moment why nothing in his life could ever be simple.

"Soren," Volke said, his voice startling the sage out of his self-pity. He had gone to the upper deck and was leaning over the railing.

"Wind magic is good against bird-tribe laguz, right?"

"Yes," Soren replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Because we're going to be dealing with a whole flock of them shortly," he said, and leapt down to the lower deck. He tore open a crate and dug through it with one hand. "Here," he called, tossing Soren's Elwind tome to him.

"I thought you said you threw it in the ocean!"

Volke pulled out a few swords and inspected them before tossing them to the side. "I lied. Get ready to fight, will you?" He made a noise of triumph as he produced a pair of gleaming stilettos from the box. "These'll do," he said, and pulled his scarf up over his face. He suddenly looked a lot a more deadly.

Soren fumbled to ready his book while he scanned the sky overhead. Volke's eyes were much keener than his, but he did manage to pick out a few black smudges moving against the wind. Pirates, most likely, but he was surprised to see them this far north. Unless he had been wrong about their location and they had traveled even further than he orginally thought. Which, given the circumstances, was entirely possible.

"I don't understand," Soren said, backing up until he was side-by-side with the assassin. "Why would pirates attack a Goldoan ship?"

"We must not look like Goldoans to them," Volke responded. His eyes were locked onto the approaching cloud of ravens. "I count seven. Maybe more. Can we handle them?"

"We? So I'm expected to help you now?"

"Don't you trust me?"

"Volke, you kill people for money."

The assassin smirked. "So do you."

"You would have killed Ike!"

"You would have wanted me to."

"Listen, you -"

"Less talk. They're coming. You have a weapon, so use it on whoever you feel poses the most threat to you."

Soren couldn't really argue with that logic. As soon as the first raven descended on them, its giant wings spread to full length, Volke brandished his knives and lunged forward. The laguz screamed and flapped desperately in an attempt to dodge, but even its superior mobility couldn't keep it out of range of the man's quick attack. An angry gash appeared across its breast, then another, and it gave a final keening cry before crumpling to the deck in a lifeless heap. Soren wasted no time in stepping to the side and conjuring a violent gust of magical wind. It spun up over his head with a deafening rush and intercepted the next two attackers mid-dive. They squawked and slammed into one another, the impact snapping both of their necks before the wind flung them out to sea with a trail of black feathers in their wake.

Soren dropped his hands and turned to look at Volke, who was darting back and forth in a desperate attempt to evade the attacks of three birds who had clustered around him. He managed to stay out of reach of their claws until they backed him up against a railing, and Soren could tell that he was going to be in some trouble if he didn't do something soon.

The sage readied his book to cast another spell, but before the words could even leave his mouth a shadow much larger than any raven appeared on the deck. Soren spun and looked up, blinking in surprise as a giant creature dove out of the sky and caught one, then two of the corsairs in its talons. It crushed them easily and tossed their carcasses into the sea as it opened its jaws and let out a blood-curdling war cry. The remaining pair of ravens swooped back and up into the high air before turning and fleeing as fast as their wings could carry them. Volke just froze, his weapons still readied but forgotten in his hands, and stared up at his rescuer.

"...Wyvern?" he finally managed to say.

"Close," the creature growled. Its voice ground and scraped like stone over stone and the flapping of its heavy wings threatened to throw them both overboard.

"Volke, wyverns can't talk," Soren stated simply, a cold feeling creeping up from the pit of his stomach. "This is a dragon." He looked over the mysterious flying creature. It was magnificent - larger than any he had ever seen, and covered in ruby scales that shined and rippled like the sea. Its wingspan was easily the length of the caravel and it sported an impressive set of claws on well-muscled limbs. "In fact, I would imagine it is probably the one that hired you, checking up on his investment. Am I right?"

The dragon bared its fangs in a gesture that might have been a smile. "You are wrong, little one. I am merely..." he paused, as if trying to remember the word. "A retainer. I would not... do business with such humans." Volke looked as though he wanted to respond to that comment, but ultimately decided against risking his neck for the sake of a snarky comeback. "Hmm," the dragon continued, licking the talons of one forearm idly. "How strange for the ravenfolk to attack a ship bearing the crest of Goldoa. That was most unwise of them."

"Well, thanks for the help," Volke said. He sheathed his stilettos in one swift movement, his composure returned, at least for the time being. "Which one are you? You know I can't tell you apart in that form."

"I am Gareth." The dragon flew a little closer to Soren and eyed him carefully. "Hmph. Whatever he says, you still look human to me," he growled, giving him a scornful look before swooping up into the air with a rush of beating wings. "I'll be watching you, human. See that the half-breed is delivered safely," he called out before disappearing into the clouds.

Soren froze. He turned slowly to look at Volke, who was busy hauling a dead raven off the deck. "...Half-breed?" he murmured, hardly daring to breathe.

"Relax," said Volke, tossing the bird overboard with a grunt. "I have nothing against the Branded. The Goldoans told me about it when they hired me." He straightened and rubbed his bloodied hands on his pants. "You sure did a good job of hiding it, though. Even I didn't know."

Soren's eye narrowed and his fingers tightened around his book. He could handle being tricked, drugged, and taken forcibly away from his home; he could even handle attacks by pirates, insults from dragons, and having to spend time with Volke. But he couldn't deal with his past being dragged into the open by someone he had never even met, and quite frankly he was getting a bit fed up with the whole situation. He decided it was time to take matters into his own hands.

He palmed the book and raised one hand to begin the incantation. To his surprise, Volke didn't try to intercept him, nor did he even seem particularly phased by this new development. He simply crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side as if to say "Yes yes, get on with it already."

A familiar gust gathered at the sage's feet and rushed over his body, whipping his long hair up into the air. He channeled it forward towards the assassin, where it just... stopped. Not even a gentle breeze stirred the man's long scarf as he stood there calmly. Soren dropped his hands and looked on in surprise, the magical wind dying down before finally fizzling out.

"How...?" He looked down at the book in his hands. "There are more than enough charges here..."

Volke shook his head and produced a crystal bottle from one of his many pockets. "Another gift from the Goldoans, in case you decided to resist." He shook it and Soren could hear the thin sound of liquid splashing inside. "Concentrated pure water. As strong as it gets. Very useful."

Soren sighed and tossed his book to the side. "Ike is going to kill you, you know," he said sullenly, settling into a sitting position on the deck. He rested his chin on his hands and looked out over the ocean to the setting sun. It didn't matter anyway. Even if he could commandeer the ship from Volke, he certainly didn't know how to turn it around. He was going to Goldoa whether he liked it or not, so there was nothing to do but place his faith in Ike and their mercenary band to track him down. He only hoped they reached him before he found himself on the wrong end of a dragon's claws.

Volke shrugged and sat down next to Soren. "Maybe so," he responded, leaning back against a nearby barrel. He tugged his scarf up and over his eyes. "I'm going to get some sleep. You're welcome to stay out here or in the hold if you can find a place to get comfortable."

Soren just sighed and let his eyes follow the back and forth movement of the water. The sun was almost completely gone and it was starting to get very cold. He shivered and hugged his cloak around himself, listening to Volke's gentle snoring and counting the stars as they appeared in the sky. Somehow, he didn't think he was going to get very much sleep at all.

* * *

It was high noon the next day when they entered Goldoan waters. Soren jogged to the edge of the deck and peered out at the lush coastline, amazed that a journey that should have taken three weeks had been accomplished in barely more than a day. They couldn't have made it faster on the backs of the swiftest pegasi in Crimea. He wondered how they were going to make landfall - the Goldoans were notoriously isolationist, and their coast was both treacherous and well-guarded. 

Volke had spent the morning perched on the railing, watching the passing landscape and chewing on the end of his long-stemmed pipe. One end of his scarf kicked up and danced in the wind, which was surprisingly warm and pleasant. Soren had abandoned his winter cloak earlier that morning when the southern sun rose and burned the chill from the air. He smoothed back a piece of hair that had come loose from its ties and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other.

"Stop fretting," Volke finally said, not looking up. "The ship will find its own way home."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Soren snapped. "I'm more worried about what is going to happen to me afterwards."

"You'll be handed over to my client. Then I'll collect my fee and go home."

"So why did they want me alive? So they could do the job themselves?" His expression hardened and turned sour. "Kill the dirty Branded? Damn it, I thought I could hide from them. I should have known they'd smell me even in the hold of the ship." He paced from one end of the deck to the other in quick, agitated strides. This was all because he had dared to stay with Ike. The mercenary leader had become a hero, too high-profile, but Soren stubbornly refused to leave. Despite Stefan's admonitions.

Volke looked over at the sage for the first time all morning. "Relax," he ordered.

Soren shot him a scathing look. "Go to hell."

"I wouldn't have taken the job if I thought they were going to kill you."

"And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"Yes."

"Because generosity is just in your nature, is that it?"

"Because it would hurt Ike."

Soren stopped pacing and stared at Volke. His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened in cold rage. "Don't you dare talk about Ike like you care about him," he hissed, advancing on the assassin.

Volke just regarded him calmly. "I did care about him. Just like I cared about Greil before him."

"Liar!" Soren couldn't contain himself and slapped Volke hard, right across the face. His scarf, temporarily dislodged, flapped back and forth in the wind. "You were a sickness that infected their lives! At any moment, a silent killer... how dare you claim to have felt anything for them!"

The assassin did not retaliate, just touched one hand to his cheek lightly. "You know why my services were necessary, Soren." He suddenly sounded very tired. "They needed me. To protect the people they loved. I made it my business to do so."

"You'll do anything for money! It's the one thing about you anyone can trust!"

"Believe that if it makes it easier."

Soren shook his head and clutched at his chest, his heart throbbing painfully. "Why couldn't they... have just needed me...?" He understood why it had upset him so much that Ike and Griel had hired Volke to shadow them. He said it was because he didn't want them to die, but he always knew in the back of his mind that such precautions were necessary. It was the affront that bothered him - that two men that Soren loved more than family would choose a stranger to carry out the deed instead of him. He wanted to be the one to deliver the killing blow. He wanted that honor.

Volke looked at him for a long moment. "Like I said," he finally responded. "They wanted to protect the people they loved."

Soren's shoulders dropped and he took a few steps backward. He turned and leaned on the railing, trying to calm the muddle of feelings swirling around in his chest. Volke was right. As much as he regretted ever advising Ike to take on the man, he was right. Ike and Greil did what they did out of love. In a way, he supposed Volke was the same way.

They spent the next several hours in silence. Soren periodically scanned the skies for any signs of rescue - pegasus knights, wyvern riders, anything - but there was nothing to see but clear blue skies and the occasional bird. He was less worried about his safety, however. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he was beginning to believe Volke's words. He probably wasn't in very much danger. Which just left the question of what exactly the point of all of this was. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go through just to summon him to Goldoa.

He was examining the ship's sails out of boredom and curiosity when it suddenly lurched to one side. Volke nearly fell off of his perch on the rail, only avoiding going overboard by virtue of a deft leap to the deck. He crouched there at the ready, clearly somewhat alarmed by the ship's new course. Soren grabbed ahold of some nearby rigging and noted with interest that they were headed right for what appeared to be an impassable reef.

"Soren," Volke called from the lower deck. "Should we be abandoning ship?"

Soren smirked. "I highly doubt it. After all, you said the ship would find its way home, didn't you?" He was about to say something else when another sudden lurch cut him off. The slim caravel wound its way between the rocks, avoiding unseen obstacles as well as if a skilled mariner had been at the helm. Soren marveled at its construction - in several places it moved so swiftly that it seemed to defy nature itself.

After a long series of nauseating twists and turns, the ship slipped around a rock that from the sea appeared to blend seamlessly into the coastal wall. They squeezed through a narrow passage, the sides of the caravel shuddering before they finally emerged onto a perfectly still and astonishingly beautiful bay. It was sheltered on three sides by high rocky walls that were decorated with emerald cascades of moss and ivy. The ship glided through the water towards a pristine beach that hugged the bay with long white arms on either side and led up to the jungle's edge. Both Soren and Volke said nothing, almost afraid to disturb the perfect stillness of the scene. They jolted slightly when the ship ran aground.

Volke turned and looked at Soren, his expression showing that he was as unfamiliar with the situation as the young sage. "Well," he said, stepping out into the shallow water with a splash. "I guess we're here."

Soren stripped off his boots and followed the assassin, his footsteps leaving shallow depressions in the wet sand. They stepped onto the beach just as two figures emerged from a path into the jungle. Soren and Volke both stopped and watched the pair approach. When they were close enough to be recognizable, Volke nodded to the shorter of the two.

"Hello, Volke," the young man said in a lyrical voice. He smiled and his cropped aquamarine hair stirred slightly in the breeze. Soren stared at his face, sure that there was something familiar about him, but unable to place exactly what it was.

"Greetings, Your Majesty," Volke said with a deep bow. "I have brought the one you requested."

"I see that. You have done well. Gareth?" The man stepped forward obediently and placed a heavy-looking bag in Volke's waiting hands. The younger dragon turned his bright amber eyes on Soren and his expression softened. "I'm very glad to finally meet you. I am Kurthnaga, the prince of Goldoa."

Soren looked from Volke to the two dragons and back again several times before speaking. Somehow his brain just couldn't process everything that was going on, so he fell back on all the social niceties he had been practicing. "I-It's very nice to meet you," he said, with some effort. "My name is -"

"Soren," Kurthnaga interjected, then laughed apologetically. "I'm sorry. It's just that I've been looking for you for a long time." He gestured to the surrounding scenery with a wave of his hand. "We can talk later, but for now, let me be the first to welcome you home."

Soren swallowed. "...Home?"

The prince simply smiled and held out his hand. "Come. We have a lot to talk about, don't we?"

They certainly did.


	4. Chapter 4: Maybe Later

The Jaundiced Juggernaut was the closest inn to Ike's mercenary camp, and it was a road tavern seedy enough that most travelers would rather barter to spend the night in the stables than risk their neck inside. The clientele was exclusive, in as much as one had to be somewhat burlier than most just to get past the doorman.

That night the door was held by Marco, an ex-pirate with split nose and a very nasty demeanor. He stood easily six feet tall, and he had to turn sideways to get both shoulders through the doorframe. He considered himself particularly good at making sure only the 'right sort' of people got in to their establishment.

And he certainly wasn't going to take any lip from the blue-haired punk that was staring up at him.

"You adventurers?" he drawled, eyeing the small group suspiciously. He knew about adventurers, with their bright cloaks and jaunty hats. As far as he was concerned, adventurers meant trouble. And trouble wasn't getting into the Juggernaut on his watch.

"Mercenaries, actually," Ike said, trying to find a way to squeeze past the hulking man. "Now if you'll just let us by..."

Marco snorted and blocked any hope of entry with a meaty forearm. "I don't _like_ adventurers. Boss don't like 'em neither. They make the regulars _nervous_."

"I assure you we've got no bounty on anyone in your establishment," Ike insisted. "We just want to talk to the innkeeper." He tried again to shoulder his way in, only to be shoved back roughly by a hand on his chest.

"Hey!" Boyd shouted from behind him. "Don't you know who that is you're pushing around? He's the -"

Ike held up a hand to silence him. He half-turned and gave a reassuring smile to his friend, who was flanked on either side by Mist and Rolf. They had tagged along as part of what Boyd had taken to calling "the little sister brigade" - at least that's what he called it when Rolf wasn't in earshot.

"I can handle this, Boyd," he said calmly. He turned back to the grinning doorman. "Now then, as I was saying..."

"Yer not gettin' through this door," Marco stated defiantly, crossing his arms across his massive chest. "Now go home before I haveta start breakin' things."

Ike sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know, for once I'd like to be able to solve a problem without resorting to violence."

Marco just grinned his twisted, toothy grin and cracked his knuckles ominously.

He probably didn't even know what hit him next. For the record, it was Ike.

He sagged to the floor as the foursome made their way around him and into the inn. "Ew," Mist commented as she stepped delicately over his legs. "Ike, I think you broke his face."

Ike gave her a sheepish look and grabbed her hand, tugging her away from the unconscious doorman. "Er. Try not to look."

"Yeah," Boyd said, herding Rolf past the scene. "Don't be like Uncle Ike. Violence isn't the answer."

"Except when it is," the young archer said with a roll of his eyes.

Boyd shared a knowing glance with Ike and mouthed "Puberty."

"Hey, I saw that! What are you saying? That was about me, wasn't it!"

Boyd shushed him as they entered the main tavern area of the inn. It was dark and reeked of smoke and liquor, and Mist made a noise and covered her nose with a handful of her scarf. A circular fireplace stood in the center of the room, but instead of a warm fire it only contained a smoldering pile of red coal. The adjacent firewood bin had been turned upside down and was serving as a footrest for a pair of very dingy-looking boots.

Thankfully, the 'regulars' didn't seem to register their presence. Most sat alone at the bar, deep in their cups or engaged by the barmaids. Some sat around wobbly round tables and threw dice or played cards, but their expressions were equally grim.

"You three stay here," Ike threw over his shoulder as he made his way over to the bar. "I need to talk to the innkeeper. This should only take a moment."

The surface of the bar was scarred and battered, and when Ike put his hands down on it he discovered it was also sticky. He sighed and tapped on the counter to get the attention of the innkeeper, an older man who was busy yelling at one of the barmaids.

He turned. "Yeah, whaddya -" he said noisily, stopping mid-sentence when his eyes landed on Ike's face. His expression soured. "Oh. One of you. I hope you killed Marco, because if you didn't I'm going to."

"Marco is fine. Well, will be fine." Ike detached a small purse from his belt and let it fall onto the counter with a dull clank. The innkeeper eyed it greedily. "This is for your trouble, and the information you're about to give me."

The old man snatched the bag up and tested its weight in his hand. "How much is this?" he asked suspiciously.

"Enough."

He sniffed. "Is it real?"

"If you know who I am, you know that it is."

He looked at Ike's face carefully. "Yeah, I know who you are," he finally admitted, pocketing the bag. "Whaddya want, then?"

Ike leaned forward. "I need a fireman. Know where I can find one?"

The innkeeper froze. He placed his hands on the counter and let his eyes travel warily around the room before leaning in close enough that Ike could smell the whiskey on his breath. "Don't got no fires here," he murmured. "Fireman's gone. Got that? Heard he went south."

"South to where?"

The old man sniffed. "Don't know. He just disappeared. But get this - last I heard, he was doin' business with sub-humans."

"You mean laguz?"

"Whatever. Don't know how you could tell, though - small group came through here not long ago lookin' for him, and they looked perfectly normal to me."

Ike raised an eyebrow. "Normal? No wings or ears or anything?"

"Ayup."

"How about tattoos?"

"I don't... wait." The innkeeper furrowed his brow, bristly white eyebrows knitting together. "Now that you mention it, some of 'em did have tattoos. Didn't think anything of it, though."

"I see." Ike straightened up and tapped the counter. "Thanks, old man. Sorry again about Marco." He was turning to leave when a weathered hand stopped him.

"Didn't think it was like your type to need any... fires put out. I gotta ask - who do you need 'extinguished?' I might be able to arrange somethin'..."

Ike smirked. "I don't need anyone dead. Rather, this is about someone I'd very much like to keep alive." He waved with one hand and made his way towards the exit.

"Hmph," the innkeeper muttered under his breath, scrubbing at the counter with a grimy rag. "Good luck with that."

* * *

"_Dragons_?" Boyd exclaimed, a little louder than Ike would have liked. 

"Really?" Mist chimed in, equally excited. They were moving quickly along the road back to camp, as Ike had decided they would need to enlist the help of several pegasus knights to get where they were going. It was already late afternoon, and he wanted to leave before nightfall. "Are we going to Goldoa?"

"No,_ I_ am going to Goldoa. _You_ are staying at the camp."

She gaped and stopped in her tracks. "You can't be serious!"

Ike sighed and turned around. "Mist, I really don't want to argue about this. I need you to stay behind. Time is of the essence right now, and extra companions would slow me down."

"But Ike!" Mist reached out and grabbed his hands, her eyes large and pleading. "I'm not a kid anymore. I fought with you... I fight with you every day!"

"This isn't about you being a kid. It's about Soren, and I need to -"

"Need to what? You're not the only person that cares about him, you know!"

Ike looked down at her for a long moment before reaching to cup her cheek with his hand. "I know. Believe me, if I were you, I'd be upset too." He sighed. "Truthfully, I have selfish motives. With Titania and Soren gone, I can't just leave the camp alone. I need someone I can trust to run it while I'm gone." He looked into her eyes. "Do you think you can do that, Mist?"

She stared up at him, her objections for the moment forgotten. "...Me?"

"Yes," Ike nodded. "You're old enough now."

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded mutely. Ike gave her a gentle smile and squeezed her hand before turning back to the road. All four walked in silence for a while before Boyd piped up again.

"But Ike, how do you know they were dragons? Sounds like they coulda been any kind of laguz."

Ike shook his head. "The innkeeper said they didn't have ears or tails, and bird-tribe laguz have pretty obvious wings. Remember, dragons don't have any visually identifiable features in human form, save for a tattoo-like marking somewhere on their body."

"But anyone could have a tattoo. They could have just been normal humans, right?"

"Maybe. But he specifically mentioned 'sub-humans' and I've learned to trust the rumor mill in places like that. Wherever people spread gossip for their own protection, you can be pretty sure it's going to be right."

Boyd nodded thoughtfully. "So that's it, then? You're flying to Goldoa, just like that?"

"That's what I had in mind, yes?"

"And you're going to somehow avoid getting ripped to shreds by the border patrols?"

"I'll find a way."

"And then you're going to knock on everyone's door and ask if they've seen a scrawny-looking human moping around?"

"If that's what it takes."

A pause. "You realize I'm going with you, right?"

Ike smiled. "I thought that's what you'd say. I don't suppose you feel like helping Mist run the camp?"

"No thanks. Paperwork and all that isn't really my thing."

"Then we'll just have to leave Rolf to help her."

Both of them chuckled at the indignant cry that came from behind them as they made their way back to camp.

* * *

The very first thing Soren did upon his arrival in Goldoa was have a very big meal. Kurthnaga and Gareth had escorted him to a secluded villa that was set on the edge of the lush jungle that skirted the bay. From one side of the villa, he had a beautiful view of the ocean and surrounding greenery, and from the other there was nothing but an expansive painted desert that seemed to stretch all the way to the horizon. Great canyons and monoliths of sandstone peppered that particular vista, and Soren was forced to remember that these were a people that could cross a desert as easily as he could cross a room. 

The three of them sat on an ornate veranda while a handful of dutiful servants brought course after course of fruits and meats the equal to which Soren had never seen. Volke had already disappeared, probably to start his return journey in whatever regular boat they provided for him. It would certainly take him longer to get home than it had to get to Goldoa.

Soren did his best to keep up with the two dragons, but their appetite bordered on unnatural and he had always been a light eater. Eventually he was reduced to polite nibbling and nodding to perplexingly inane small talk until he simply couldn't take it any more. The conversation lulled when Kurthnaga bit into a papaya, and Soren took the opportunity to demand what exactly he was doing there.

"What, exactly, am I doing here?" he demanded. He had always been tremendously faithful to his inner monologue.

Kurthnaga stopped chewing and looked over at him, then swallowed slowly and put the rest of the fruit down on the plate. He started to chuckle as he wiped his fingers on the napkin on his lap.

"What's so funny?" Soren asked, his ruby eyes narrowing.

"I'm sorry," the young prince said. He looked up with a warm smile. "It's just that you remind me of someone I met once."

Gareth turned his intense gaze on Soren. "His Majesty is not used to being addressed in such an informal manner," he said roughly.

"Oh, it's quite alright!" Kurthnaga insisted. "I like it. Is this how all beorc speak?"

"Er..." Soren shifted uncomfortably. "Not really. I might be... a little more abrasive than some."

"Well, I think it's honest. I value that." He stood and held out his hand to Soren. "Will you join me for a walk?"

"Will you explain to me why you dragged me halfway across the continent against my will?"

Kurthnaga laughed sheepishly. "I promise."

Soren looked from one dragon to the other before nodding and getting to his feet. The prince beckoned him to follow and then made his way off the veranda onto a steep spiral staircase that descended into the gardens below. They wound their way down in silence, Gareth tagging along for a while before Kurthnaga gave him a look and he backed off begrudgingly. At the bottom of the stair, Soren's sandals sank into soft, mossy soil, and walls of carefully groomed greenery rose on either side.

"This way," the prince said, grabbing his hand and tugging him along a cobbled path that wound deeper into the gardens. Soren stumbled and nearly jogged to keep up, feeling for a moment like they were young children playing a game of tag in the summer heat. The scenery was amazing - giant ferns padded the ground on either side of the path, and trimmed bushes rose up to wall them in to a kind of natural corridor. Above them, mossy vines looped around tree branches and carried tiny pink blossoms that smelled vaguely like honeysuckle. Soren could hardly absorb it all before they emerged into what looked like an inner courtyard.

A stone fountain occupied the middle of a circle of stone tiles that were actually quite cracked and overgrown. Soren stepped forward onto the uneven ground carefully and noticed that the both the style of decoration and the landscaping were significantly different than the gardens they had just been walking through, and looked much older and less well-maintained.

Kurthnaga took a deep, satisfied breath and ran forward to sit on the edge of the fountain. His legs kicked playfully as he leaned down and ran his fingers through the water there. "Isn't it wonderful?" he said, looking to Soren with shining amber eyes. "This is my favorite place. You can drink the water if you want - it's clear."

Soren approached the fountain and leaned over to look into the water. It was indeed clear, and he lingered for a moment to look at his reflection in the mirrored surface. Kurthnaga's face appeared next to his, and suddenly he was seized by that feeling of familiarity again. His expression turned bewildered, and the prince grinned and shattered the illusion with a flick of his hand in the water.

Soren straightened and sat down on the gravelly stone edge of the fountain. He met Kurthnaga's eyes and waited expectantly.

The prince leaned back, obviously much more at ease now that they were alone together. His gaze slid back to the surface of the water. "There's a freshwater spring here," he explained. "This whole forest draws life from it. It's one of the few places in Galdoa where anything is green." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Do you know why the landscaping is different in this one place?"

Soren looked around. The stonework was clearly very old, almost decrepit. Compared to the beauty of the gardens they had passed through, it was hardly worth preserving - he wondered why they kept it around at all. "I don't," he admitted, impatient for the young dragon to get to the point already.

"It's because this used to be a beorc settlement. A long, long time ago." Kurthnaga looked up with a sad smile. "It's the only thing left. The only piece of them that remains. I won't let them tear it down." He flicked his hand in the water idly.

"I didn't know there were any beorcs in this part of the world."

"There were," he sighed. "They were eliminated."

Soren looked up in surprise. "Why?"

"Are you that shocked? Look anywhere for hatred and bigotry and you will find it." His brow furrowed and his amber eyes darkened. "The beorc that lived here lived peacefully with many laguz. They were fishermen and traders, artisans and merchants - they were the ones that crafted the magical ship that carried you here."

"When was this?"

"Long, long ago. I was just a hatchling, but I remember. I came here often to visit my older sister. That used to be her house." He gestured towards the villa.

Soren frowned. "If the princess of Goldoa lived here among the beorc, why was the village destroyed? And what happened to her?"

Kurthnaga's eyes dropped to his lap, where his hands were twisting in the fabric of his tunic. "She did something unforgivable," he said quietly. "To my father, at least. And to many others."

Soren's heart skipped a beat and a sick feeling rose from the pit of his stomach. He suddenly understood what this all had to do with him. The familiar face. The odd sense of deja vu. "They had an agreement... didn't they?" he said in a low voice. "The beorc and the laguz. They could live together harmoniously, but with one very important stipulation."

The prince nodded, a pained expression passing over his face. "The ancient taboo. They must never share love or interbreed - it was forbidden."

"Kurthnaga. Are you saying -"

"I'm saying my sister broke the rules. She fell in love with a beorc man, an artisan and skilled magician."

Soren got to his feet, his long robe swishing around his ankles. He clasped his hands over his ears and clenched his eyes shut. "I'm not hearing this!"

"Soren, you have to!" Kurthnaga stood and grabbed his forearms firmly, twisting them down and forcing the sage to look into his eyes. "They married in secret..."

"Shut up! I don't want to know!"

"They had a child..."

"STOP IT!" Soren tore away and fell to his knees on the rough stonework, covering his face with his hands. "Please..." he sobbed.

Kurthnaga just looked down at him, his face a mask of pity and sympathy. He knelt and placed a hand on Soren's back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have forced that on you."

Soren's shoulders shook as sobs wracked through his thin frame. He never wanted to know about his history. He never wanted to know about the laguz blood in his veins. He didn't care where it came from, and he hated the people that put it there. He hated them and everything they represented, everything they did to _him_. He hated that he was doomed to be an abomination because of their indiscretion. He never wanted to know who they were.

He sniffed and drew a shaky breath. "So... what? That was generations ago. Am I supposed to just... embrace you and call you 'uncle' now?"

Kurthnaga frowned. "That's not that this is about! I wanted..." he paused, trying to find the right words. "I remember my sister. She was happy with him. I don't think what they did was evil. I don't think she deserved to die! Please tell me you don't either..." He turned Soren towards him, the tone of his voice edging on desperation. "Please..."

Soren looked up at him, his eyes sore and red from crying. "I do," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

Kurthnaga looked as though someone had stabbed him through the chest. His eyes went wide and vulnerable, his expression completely slack. After a long moment of silence he shook his head and got to his feet. Soren simply stared at the ground, his eyes following the lines of the cracked tiles. "I loved the beorc," the prince finally said. "When my father found out about my sister, I did my best to save them. We loaded the women and children into one of the caravels - my sister's baby girl was on that boat too. They sailed for Gallia, and the men stayed and fought. They were proud and brave, even though they knew there was no hope for survival. As for the caravel... it came back empty."

He took a few steps backward and turned away. "I searched for my sister's kin for generations. Every lead fizzled out, and after my father closed our borders it got even harder. I had given up when that beorc and his crew accidentally landed on our shores - Ike, was it? It was so faint, but I could smell it - my sister's blood, on that very ship." He smiled and closed his eyes. "I have never been happier than that day."

Soren sat back on his heels, then stood slowly. "So you abducted me? Brought me here against my will and forced a history I am deeply ashamed of out into the open."

Kurthnaga turned towards him and met his gaze. "I am truly sorry for everything you went through to come here. But I had to operate in secrecy. If my father knew of your existence your life would be over. To this day he doesn't trust beorc to come inside our borders." He sighed. "I just want to return to that time of peace between our people. I thought you would share those sentiments."

"Oh," Soren laughed, a sharp barking sound that was more angry than amused. "I do. Beorc and laguz living together in harmony. Wouldn't that be great?" His face turned cold. "But I am neither, don't you see that? Even in that society, I don't belong. So I hope you understand... if I just don't see how I can help you."

A long moment of silence fell between them. Eventually Kurthnaga just shook his head and walked across the circle back to the path. He looked over at Soren. "Please take some time to think about it. A week. That's all I ask. One week, and then we'll send you home and never bother you again."

"You want me to stay here for a week?"

"I assure you that you will be very well taken care of."

Soren frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't want to stay. He didn't want to think about it. But something in the prince's earnest expression wore away at his resolve. Greil always said you had to look out for your family; he said family was the most important thing anyone could have. For so long, Greil's Mercenaries was his only family - now, like it or not, he had a new relative to consider. He found himself unable to turn his back on that, as much as he would have liked to. "Fine," he said grudgingly. "One week. Then I go back before the whole camp falls apart."

Kurthnaga smiled gratefully. "Thank you."

"Well, you are my great-great-great-great-great... um... how many greats is it?"

The dragon prince laughed. "Too many. Please, just call me Kurthnaga." He turned to leave Soren alone, but was stopped by a call from the sage.

"Kurthnaga?"

He looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"What was her name? Your sister."

He smiled. "Nala."

"Nala?"

"Yes. There are portraits of her in the villa, if you'd like to see them."

Soren paused. He looked to the side and brushed a piece of hair back out of his face. "I'm not ready right now," he admitted. "Maybe later."

"All right," the prince nodded, and high above them both a brightly colored bird sailed across the sun. "Maybe later."


	5. Chapter 5: Awakenings

Soren woke up in a bed that was a whole lot larger and a whole lot softer than he was used to. He sat up halfway, still dazed from sleep, and looked around the room with a vague sense of bewilderment. Light poured in from a vaulted window and fell in streaks across an incredibly expensive-looking marble floor. It took him several minutes to realize where he was, and then a few more to remember what he was doing there.

He wiggled his toes beneath the sheets, amazed at how cool and clean the linens felt, before slipping out to one side and placing his bare feet on the floor. He yawned and stretched, shrugging into a dressing gown that had been folded up on the nightstand. A vanity stood off to one side, and he made his way over to it to make use of the basin. He hadn't had a proper bath in days and he was starting to feel it. He scrubbed at his face and arms with cool, faintly perfumed water, until he felt at least slightly more human. Looking in the mirror, he noted with some despair that his hair was a bit of a different story.

He sighed and picked up an ivory comb that rested on the vanity. He weighed it in his hand, surprised by the lightness of it, before turning to his reflection and setting to work on the tangled mess that fell around his shoulders. He had only gotten about half of it done, and his arms were starting to tire, when there a knock came at the door.

"Come in," he called through his teeth, which were currently holding one of the ties to his hair. His hands were entirely occupied with a stubborn rat's nest that had developed on the back of his head. Abduction was apparently very hard on one's personal grooming.

The door opened tentatively. Kurthnaga poked his head in and Soren caught a glimpse of his characteristic blue-green hair in the mirror.

"Oh, it's you," he said, his voice still muffled by the tie he held in his mouth. "Uh, sorry. I'm having a bit of trouble here."

The prince smiled and stepped in the rest of the way, letting the door fall closed behind him. He padded over to where Soren was standing and inspected the scene with bemused interest.

"Do you want some help?" he finally asked, after watching Soren struggle for several minutes with a particularly nasty tangle.

"I'm fine," the sage snapped. He tugged forcefully and winced when several strands pulled out in the comb. "Ow!"

"Careful!" Kurthnaga laughed, reaching up to ease the comb out of Soren's hands. "Your hair's too lovely to rip out like that. Let me do it. I won't hurt you, I promise."

Soren started to object, but was stilled by a stern look from the prince. He sighed and folded his arms over his chest. He had known the boy for a day and a half and he already knew there was no point in arguing about it.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, smoothing out a piece of Soren's hair with surprisingly skilled fingers. "I trust you were comfortable."

"Mmm," Soren murmured. "It was fine. Maybe a bit big for my tastes..." he trailed off, fighting the urge to yawn. He had to admit it was surprisingly pleasant to have his hair brushed by someone else. It wasn't something he had ever experienced before.

"Ah, I'm sorry about that. We tend to like a lot of space."

"Who, Goldoans?"

Kurthnaga laughed. "No, royalty."

Soren flushed. Even in the middle of all this wealth and comfort, he had managed to forget that his host was the heir to an entire nation. He had almost taken to thinking of him as a normal boy Ð energetic, idealistic, and more than a little petulant. Never mind that he was ancient by most standards.

"Kurthnaga," he mused, eyeing him in the mirror. "If you're the prince of Goldoa, how is it that we're able to stay here in secret? Doesn't the king know where you are?"

"He does know where I am. I come here to get away sometimes. Well, more than sometimes. I like to stay close to the coast, and far away from the capital, whenever possible."

"How can you just abandon your responsibilities like that?"

Kurthnaga laughed, a soft but bright sound that floated in the air above them. "What responsibilities? Do you know how old my father is? I don't believe he ever intends to die." He raised the comb and dragged it through Soren's hair with relatively little resistance. "That's better. I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"Not at all," Soren admitted. "It actually feels kind of nice."

Kurthnaga paused and looked at him in the mirror. A proud smile broke out over his face. "Really?"

"Is it that surprising?"

"I kind of thought you hated everything."

Soren gave him a frigid glare and he chuckled softly. They stood in mutual silence for a few minutes, Kurthnaga still working the comb through Soren's hair, while he watched his progress in the mirror. When most of the tangles had been straightened out, and his hair fell straight down his back and to his shoulders like it normally did, Kurthnaga reached around him to put the comb down and grab one of his hair ties off the vanity.

"What are you doing?" Soren asked, half turning his head.

"Be still," Kurthnaga ordered. He gathered Soren's hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck and began to braid it into a thick cord. Soren squirmed a little. He was starting to feel a little strange at all this attention, like a small child being tended to by his mother. Or at the very least, what he imagined a small child being tended to by his mother would feel like. It wasn't as though he had any memories of that particular experience.

Kurthnaga finished the long braid and tied it off before letting it fall down Soren's back. "There," he said with a wink. "That should keep your hair out of trouble for a little while at least."

"Hmph. It wouldn't have been so bad in the first place if I hadn't been kidnapped, you know," responded Soren haughtily, reaching behind his head to touch the braid. He could never be bothered to braid his hair - it was too much trouble, and no one had ever offered to do it before. As strange as it was, its reassuring weight on the back of his neck made him feel a little bit less alone.

"Point taken," Kurthnaga laughed, then turned and crossed the room to a tall wardrobe that stood in the corner. "Now then, let's get you some decent clothes to wear. You're about my size, so there must be something here that would fit you." He tugged open a drawer and started to dig around in a pile of brightly colored fabric.

"Wait a minute. What's wrong with my clothes?" Soren gestured to indicate his robe and cloak, which were slung over a nearby chair.

"Nothing," Kurthnaga called back, his voice slightly muffled by the wardrobe. "But this is a tropical climate. You'll sweat to death in those heavy black robes."

"I'm really okay, thank you." He watched a few entirely-too-revealing garments fly through the air over the young dragon's shoulder. He sighed and stooped to pick one up. It was barely more than a scrap of colored silk. He couldn't even figure out where his arms were supposed to go.

"Nonsense, I insist. I don't mind sharing with you." Another garment came flying towards him. This one might have been pants.

"Kurthnaga, I cannot wear these!"

The prince stopped digging and looked up. "Why not?" he asked. "They should fit."

Soren flushed. "It's not... that... it's just..." He held up one of the proffered shirts. "There's barely any fabric here! I can't... expose that much..."

Kurthnaga blinked once before his puzzled expression resolved into understanding. "Oh! You're being modest!" He looked like it was the most novel thing he'd ever heard. "There's no need for that. There's no one here but me and Gareth and the servants." Soren gave him a dismayed look and he turned back to the wardrobe to produce a short robe. "Here. Would this be better?"

Soren walked over and inspected the robe. It was bright blue with black trim, and though it was very soft and light in his hands, the fabric seemed surprisingly sturdy. It looked like it would only come down to about the knees, but at least it covered his arms and two ebony clasps would ensure it stayed closed. He nodded hesitantly.

Kurthnaga smiled and handed him the garment along with a matching black sash. "Good. Now go ahead and change, and I'll meet you downstairs. Then we can decide what to do today." He turned and practically skipped out of the room. Soren watched him go with a weary sigh.

He held out the robe in front of him and eyed it skeptically. He had the feeling that it was going to be a very long week.

* * *

Ike woke up in a bed that was a whole lot smaller and a whole lot less comfortable than he was used to. He groaned and rolled over, feeling around with one hand for a favorite pillow that wasn't there. Instead, he encountered a very unexpected handful of Boyd, who was still snoring gently and curled around the blanket he had managed to co-opt during the night. 

"Mmmm," the boy murmured, snuggling his face into the wooly bundle. "Titania... you're so soft..."

Ike's eyes snapped open and he yanked his hand back. Boyd was definitely not his favorite pillow. He ran his fingers through his hair and sat up stiffly. Piece by piece, his surroundings registered on his senses; grimy stone walls, two bedrolls pushed together, a dark and unfamiliar room. They were somewhere in central Gallia, far from any civilization. Thankfully they had been lucky enough to find an abandoned church to claim shelter for the night.

Ike looked up at an arched window that was cut into the crumbling wall. Pieces of cast iron jutted out at uneven intervals, the last remnants of a stained glass window that had once resided there. Through the window he could still see stars, and only the very first blue glow of dawn was creeping over the horizon.

He guessed there was at least an hour or so before sunrise. He contemplated wrestling the blanket away from Boyd and trying to go back to sleep, but waking up once had been hard enough and he didn't particularly want to go through it again. Not to mention he would feel a little guilty disturbing Boyd's pleasant, if creepy, dream. So instead, he stood and wrapped his cloak closer around him, his breath coming in steamy little puffs in the chilly air.

He strode over to the doorway to the church and peered out into the yard. The pegasi were still sleeping peacefully, their great wings folded against their backs and legs tucked beneath them. Their riders, two Crimean knights Elincia had been kind enough to provide, were curled against the mystical beasts. They had insisted on that, even in the cold. Ike hugged himself and leaned against the doorframe with one shoulder.

"Couldn't sleep?" a gruff, not entirely awake voice came from behind him. He turned and saw Boyd shuffle to his feet and stretch.

"I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

Boyd scratched himself and ambled over to the door. "Nah. I was just having this really weird dream, though."

Ike smirked and looked back out at the budding sunrise. The stars still shimmered in the sky and pricked through the pink glow on the horizon. He sighed almost inaudibly. The night sky reminded him of Soren - it always had. They used to stay up late and run outside, deep into the meadow and the tall grass, and lay it all down like a bed. Then they would lay on their backs and watch the stars, and Soren would point out all the constellations that he knew. Ike still remembered them.

"Thinking about Soren?" Boyd's voice disturbed the silence.

"Yeah," he admitted. "About when we were kids, actually." He laughed quietly and one of the pegasi stirred at the noise. "He knew everything, even back then."

"He's pretty smart, yeah."

"And a lot more than that."

Boyd frowned. "He'll be okay. We'll find him."

"I know that." Ike paused and chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "He's a survivor."

"And you're a hero," Boyd said, delivering a reassuring clap on his shoulder.

Ike sighed. He hated that word. "Boyd, you know that I -"

"Yeah, yeah. Not liking it doesn't make it not true."

Ike shifted uncomfortably and stared ahead, his eyes glued to the horizon. They stood together quietly for a long time. He was half-expecting Boyd to leave and go eat some breakfast or get ready for the long flight, but his friend remained at his side until the silence grew unbearably expectant.

"You're not going to give up on this one, are you?" he sighed.

He could practically hear Boyd grinning. "Nope. You're brooding about something, and I'm not leavin' until you get whatever it is off your chest."

Ike suppressed a smile. Typical Boyd. He never could stand it when he kept secrets. "Fine. You really want to know?"

"I really do!"

A pause. "I think I might be in love with him."

"Now that's not - wait, what? You... what?"

"I think I'm in love with him. Been wondering about it for quite some time now, actually." Ike continued to look out over the yard and waited patiently for the other shoe to drop.

Boyd just kind of slumped against the doorframe, the gears in his head obviously taking a while to chew this one up. "Then you... he... wait. Stop. Love? How do you know?"

"Well, I don't. That's kind of the point. But... I need him, Boyd. More than I need anyone else. It scares me sometimes."

"...Is that really true?" Boyd asked. He shook his head slowly. "Why didn't you ever... you know, _do_ anything about it?"

Ike turned and looked at him in surprise. "What was I supposed to do? He was with me. I thought that was enough."

"Enough for what?"

"Well, I don't know... a relationship I suppose."

Boyd gaped. "It is most definitely _not_ enough."

"How do you know?"

"I _know._"

Ike frowned. This wasn't really the reaction he had been expecting. "...This is different."

"Why, 'cause you're both guys? Believe me, that doesn't stop people."

"No... yes. No. That's not why. I just... didn't want to complicate things."

Boyd considered that for a moment. "Have you ever told him?"

"No."

"Then how do you know it would complicate things?"

Ike shook his head a bit stubbornly. "It might. And besides, what good would it have done anyway? Things were fine the way they were."

Boyd pinched the bridge of his nose. "How a guy like you managed to save the world is beyond me."

Ike blinked. "Well... Soren was helping."

"Ike, you have to tell him!"

"Doesn't he already know?"

"I don't think it works that way." Boyd sighed and rolled his eyes up like he was talking to a small child. "Listen, this is a pretty big deal... y'know, love..."

"I am aware of that."

"Right. I know you are. I do. Just listen for a minute." Boyd furrowed his brow. He was clearly trying very hard to play the role of older brother at the moment, and Ike didn't see much point in resisting it, so he just let the man talk. "He's your best friend, right?"

"Of course."

"Then it's not fair for you to keep this from him!"

"But I'm not even sure how I feel." Ike turned towards him. "I'm not sure..." he paused, then sighed and his shoulders fell. "About anything. Really."

Boyd pursed his lips. "Then maybe he can help you be sure." A slow smile broke out over his face. "After all, he _is_ really smart. Right?"

Blue eyes held green ones for a long, heavy moment before Ike chuckled and shook his head. He did have to concede that point. "You're right. I know you're right. Thanks, Boyd," he said warmly, pulling him into a rough bear hug. "You know I love you?"

The other man drew back and gave him a wary look. "Whoa. Don't get ideas now. Soren I can't speak for, but I definitely couldn't take waking up to your ugly mug every day."

Ike scoffed and punched him lightly on the arm. "C'mon, let's get packed up. We've got a long day ahead of us."

Just then, the sun broke over the horizon, and long streams of light flooded around their shapes into the church, casting the tall shadow-forms of two men onto the cracked stone floor.

* * *

Soren and Kurthnaga ended up spending the afternoon on a long, circuitous walk along the edge of the jungle and down towards the bay. The sage was actually quite grateful for the lighter clothing he was wearing, because the sun was oppressive and he would have been very uncomfortable in his heavy robes. 

Truthfully, he was already starting to feel exhausted. Kurthnaga wanted to show him everything, and besides being completely unfazed by the heat, he had a seemingly endless store of energy. They spent hours looking at rare flowers, rainbow-colored birds, dragonflies with long, shimmering wings, and rock formations that Kurthnaga lovingly pointed out as favorite playgrounds of his youth. Soren was curious about these things, to be sure, but he probably would have been just as happy reading about them. It certainly would have been a lot less sweaty.

They ended up on the beach just as the sun was finally easing up a little and falling lower in the sky. The bay was still strikingly quiet, and they both stopped talking to listen to the sounds of the tide as they abandoned their sandals and walked barefoot along the water's edge.

It was Soren that spoke first. "Kurthnaga."

Hair that matched the sea swept against his shoulders as he turned his head. "Yes?"

"I said I was willing to stay here for a week."

The young prince smiled. "So you did."

"There's something I'm worried about, however."

"What's that?"

Soren slowed and came to a stop. Warm water licked the tips of his sand-encrusted toes. "I believe someone may be looking for me."

Kurthnaga paused and turned to look at him. "I really don't expect any of your beorc friends will be able to find you here," he said, a bit incredulously.

"You don't understand. I'm more worried that he's going to get hurt trying to find me. The Goldoans aren't renowned for their hospitality towards beorc intruders, even this one."

The young prince tilted his head to the side. "Who are we talking about here?" he asked curiously, his soft voice ringing a little in the warm air.

Soren sighed and shuffled his feet a little in the sand. "Actually... I believe you've met."

Kurthnaga looked thoughtful for a moment before realization dawned on his features. "Do you mean Ike? That young man you were traveling with when you brushed against our shores?" A glimmer of amusement shown in his amber eyes. "I've heard tell that they're calling him a hero these days. You believe he is looking for you?"

Soren flushed. "I, uh... well, maybe..."

"Mmm," the young prince nodded knowingly. "This isn't quite what I expected, but certainly interesting." He tucked his hands behind his back and bowed slightly to look up at Soren, who was trying very hard to hide behind his hair. "Do you mind telling me what kind of relationship you share with that boy?"

"It's not like that! I work for him, that's all!"

"And does he exercise the same diligence in pursuing all of his employees?"

"Er..." Soren faltered. He felt as though his face was about to burn off. His relationship with Ike was the last thing he had wanted to discuss with his royal host. "Well, we've known each other for a long time..."

Kurthnaga straightened and smiled. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. You love him, don't you?"

Soren made a noise of surprise and tried to cover for it by coughing. "What are you talking about? He's my best -"

"Soren," the prince laughed, his face open and friendly. "Dragons have a very good sense of smell. It would be hard to hide that kind of reaction from any of us."

"I really don't know what you mean by that."

"And that was a lie. We can tell that too."

Soren scowled. This was not what he intended at all - he really was just worried about Ike. Never mind what he felt for the man, he knew that Ike wouldn't stop until he found and preferably maimed the people that were responsible for hurting him. That was just who Ike was; he'd been that way ever since they were children. If he tracked them down to Goldoa, then he could get himself into some serious trouble, or worse. "Kurthnaga, I just want to make sure that he doesn't get harmed or killed by one of your border patrols. Whatever else you think, I would thank you kindly to keep your very good nose out of it."

The prince frowned in concern. "If that's all, then I can arrange it, but..."

"That's all. I mean it." He turned to walk away, wanting the conversation to be over, but a surprisingly strong hand grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back. "Hey!"

"Soren, do people usually just let you run away like that?" the dragon asked, his voice stern. Their faces were very close and Soren could feel his breath, distressingly hot on his face.

"What are you doing? Let me go!" he tried to wrench his hand back, but he was not nearly strong enough. He doubted even Ike would be strong enough.

Kurthnaga frowned. "Be still! I don't mean to hurt you. It's just that this is the second thing you have tried to turn your back on, and I'm getting a little weary of it."

"That's my right," Soren spat, struggling. His braid flopped back and forth as he tried to jerk backwards.

Kurthnaga tugged him closer, effectively immobilizing him. "Listen to me. What are you so afraid of?"

"Nothing!"

"Then why won't you talk about Ike?"

"Because it's not -"

Amber eyes flashed. "Don't lie to me."

Soren fell silent. He turned his head to the side and clenched his eyes shut. "...You don't understand."

Kurthnaga eased his grip a little. "Try me."

"I bet you think love is just love. Well, this is different, okay? There's no hope or future in it. Because of what I am. Because of what your sister made me." He tugged his arms free and Kurthnaga let him go. He stumbled backward a few steps and hugged himself tightly. "You're treating me like... I don't know. Like one of you."

"Soren, I think you _are_."

"I'm not! And I'm not one of them, either, no matter how much Ike... no matter how much they treat me like I am." He took a deep breath and ran his hands over his face. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't understand why Kurthnaga kept making him.

The young dragon just looked back at him. "Soren..." he said gently, without moving. The wind picked up and stirred his hair. "Why do you hate yourself so much?"

Soren froze. He turned away, wanting to hide his face. The ocean continued to lap at his feet in the same, rhythmic, back-and-forth motion. "...Wouldn't you?" he spoke after a long silence.

There was a small splashing sound behind him, and he half turned to see Kurthnaga step towards him. The prince reached out tentatively, then slid his arms around Soren's waist. The sage tensed, but didn't resist, letting the boy settle against his back in a soft and gentle embrace. He leaned his head on Soren's shoulder and took a deep breath.

"You sound like her," he said softly. Soren kept his eyes on the water, watching it flicker and gleam in the waning sun. "At the end. I think... she almost wanted to die."

"Why? I thought she was in love."

"Yes. And that's exactly why. You see, she knew that she would easily outlive her husband, and her children, and their children." He sighed, and Soren could feel it, cool on the side of his neck. "You're conscious of that too, aren't you?"

Soren shivered. He suddenly felt very small in the other man's arms. "I am... conscious of that..." he echoed quietly.

"That's why you hide your body under all those heavy clothes."

He winced. It was true. No one else in the world knew it, but it was true. "I haven't visibly aged in five years," he said in a bland, almost detached voice. "Ike knows what I am, but not... what it means. I think he thinks it's good enough to just accept me. And so I wanted to hide..." he trailed off and let his eyes fall closed. "I just didn't want him to worry."

Kurthnaga tightened his arms around Soren's waist. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Soren wanted to say it wasn't his fault, but he didn't really believe that, so instead he said nothing.

"That's what family is good for," Kurthnaga sighed, after a time. The sun was now bleeding into the horizon, and Soren was starting to feel a bit cold. "They can always relate to the things you go through, because nothing in life is ever truly linear."

The prince held his young nephew for a little bit longer before they turned back towards the villa, and as they walked in heavy silence, he knew what it was that he had to do.

* * *

It was Ike that saw it first. A dark, heavy smudge against the otherwise clear sky, far off in the distance but rapidly getting closer. 

He nudged the pegasus knight that he was riding behind. "What's that?" he asked, raising his voice over the sound of the wind. He pointed in the direction of the smudge. "Corsairs?"

The rider squinted, then waved to the other pegasus knight with a series of quick hand gestures. They banked in unison. "Too big," he responded. "That's a wyvern, or worse. Either way, it's probably trouble. Best to just avoid it."

Ike watched the distant creature warily. They were very close to Goldoa now, and the risk of encountering enemy border patrols was certainly not absent from his mind. He loosened his sword in its sheathe. He wasn't accustomed to mounted combat, but he figured he could still defend himself if necessary.

They continued on for a while, but didn't seem to make any decent headway. Ike pointed this out to the rider.

"I know," he responded. "If it's a wyvern, then it's weighed down by a rider and we can probably outrun it. But something moving that fast? I don't think it's a wyvern." He whistled to the other rider and gestured again. This time they didn't change course, but instead took out their lances and prepared for combat. "Please hold on tight, commander. We may have to engage."

Ike marveled at their bravery. It didn't seem that two lone pegasus knights burdened with passengers had any fighting chance against a dragon. "Give me something I can use to fight," he said quickly, reaching to dig around in the packs at the side of the great beast. He settled on a set of javelins - he had no idea how to handle a spear, but he figured he knew how to throw something at the enemy, pointy end first. He looked over at Boyd, who was grinning like an idiot and brandishing a set of sick-looking tomahawks. They certainly weren't going down without a fight.

As the creature got closer and closer, Ike held his weapon up to his shoulder. It was most definitely a dragon, and a huge one. It was bright red and its scales shone almost painfully bright. He squinted and tried to gauge the distance, and when he felt like the enemy was in range, he gave a mighty roar and let the javelin fly.

He was actually quite proud of himself, until the dragon made a noise that might have been a laugh and knocked the tiny weapon out of the sky with the swipe of one forearm. Ike swallowed and frantically pondered plan B.

Thankfully, he didn't have to think too hard, because the dragon came to a hovering stop in the air, and called out his name.

At least, he thought it was his name. "Whaaat?" he yelled back. The sound of flapping wings seemed to drown out all else.

"Are you Ike?" the creature growled. It sounded irritated.

"Um. Yes?" he called back. He wondered if this was one of those situations in which he should lie about his identity.

The dragon puffed. "Finally." It came a little closer. "I am here on the orders of His Majesty Kurthnaga, the Prince of Goldoa, to escort you to his private villa on the southern coast."

Ike blinked. "Er. Well, I appreciate the welcome, but we actually have some business to -"

"The offer is not negotiable." The dragon puffed again, this time letting a small flame lick the corners of its mouth.

"Oh." Ike looked over at Boyd, who just shrugged. "Er. Well then, lead on. I suppose." _Better than dying_, he thought,_ and at least it gets us safely into Goldoa._

Besides, the last time they were there, Kurthnaga had been pretty nice. He hoped, as they changed course, that this time he had something good to say as well.


	6. Chapter 6: Echo

_It was far too early in the morning when Kurthnaga came bounding into Nala's room and pounced onto her bed.  
_

_"Oogh," she groaned, tugging the blankets over her head. "Too early. Go 'way." _

_The mattress shook with the young dragon's energetic bouncing. "Naaaala," he whined. "C'mon, the sun's almost up!" He grabbed a handful of coverlet and pulled it back to expose her face. "You promised we'd go flying today!"  
_

_Heavy-lidded, bright red eyes blinked open slowly and squinted up at him. "Kurthnaga," Nala yawned, sitting up slightly. "'Today' means _after_ the sun comes up, you know."_

_He frowned. "Where does it say that? I thought 'today' meant whenever you woke up!"  
_

_She pushed her long bangs out of her face with one hand. Slightly messy viridian hair fell around her shoulders and partly down her back. "If that's the case, then the days sure are a lot longer when you're around."  
_

_He grinned. "So does that mean you're up?"  
_

_She flopped back on the pillows. "Yes, I'm up..." she sighed, rubbing her forehead in exasperation, but granting him a conciliatory smile nevertheless.  
_

_His youthful face brightened. "Great! So come teach me to fly, okay?"_

* * *

Soren blinked awake with a start. His eyes wandered the dark ceiling before dropping to the vaulted window and finally to the polished marble floor. Nothing seemed out of place, but his mind was alert and the back of his neck tingled with guarded awareness. He pulled himself into a sitting position and ran his hands over his face, pushing his long bangs back behind his ears. 

_A bad dream?_ he thought. _I don't remember._ He spoke a soft word in a dead language and the lantern on the bedside table flared to life, illuminating the large chamber with warm, flickering light.

He sighed and slid out of the bed, shivering a little as he placed his feet on the cold stone. The dressing gown from earlier was gone, replaced by another that had been folded up by unseen hands and left on the dresser. He wondered idly about the servants who maintained the villa as he shrugged into the light garment. He didn't believe he'd ever heard one of them speak, but then, Kurthnaga seemed to talk more than enough for all of them.

It was when Soren crossed to the vanity, to look into the delicately ornamented mirror there and touch the fine ivory comb, that it occured to him that his royal host might be lonely.

He sighed and let his hand fall back to his side. It wasn't his problem anyway. He honestly couldn't believe he'd agreed to spend the week there. He was so far out of his element he felt completely blank, stripped of any reference point with which to ground his sense of identity. As rich and beautiful as the palatial villa was, it only served to make the emptiness and silence of the place that much more painful and apparent.

Soren's bare feet made a quiet sticking noise as he paced around the room, moving from surface to surface and just _touching_ things - knickknacks, draperies, book-bindings, anything that he could do to disturb the settled air. What little warmth he had in his fingers he did his best to transfer to the cold deadness of the room. He figured he might at least sleep a little better if it didn't feel so much like a mausoleum.

He came to a thick wall-hanging mounted between two tall bookshelves. It was deep blue with a simple pattern of tiny silver stars and a single moon, hung almost like a false window opening onto perpetual night. He ran his fingers along the braided, tasseled edge, and came to a stop when the sensation changed from the feeling of rumpled velvet to that of a rough, three-dimensional surface.

He paused and looked closer. With his extended hand, he gently pushed aside the hanging fabric. An ornate wooden frame came into view, followed by a brightly colored swathe of painted canvas. At first it was purely abstract; an unintelligible detail of a woman's dress. Then her hands came into view, and as more of the covering fell away, more and more of the painting was exposed.

At last only her face was covered, and with a decisive yank Soren brought the rest of the heavy fabric tumbling down to rest at his feet. It fell from his hands, forgotten, as he saw for the first time the face of a woman who might have looked like his mother, if he had ever known her.

The portrait was formal, but not obviously posed, and the hands folded in her lap seemed to betray a certain nervous energy. She was pale, very pale, with lips the same shocking crimson as her eyes, and long dark green hair that was gathered up away from her face into an elaborate knot. Soren could immediately see the resemblance to Kurthnaga, but there was something else as well - something that lingered behind the small, slightly flirtatious smile she wore in the painting. Something _familiar_.

His eyes dropped to the golden nameplate that was set into the frame. _Princess Nala_, it said, in crisp copperplate lettering. Beneath that was marked the name of the artist - _Thomas Faber_.

"Faber," he murmured distantly, reaching out to touch the engraved letters with the tips of his fingers. It must have been the name of the artist's particular school - he had certainly never heard of a region by that name, unless it was long gone.

Soren took a few steps backwards, then turned and headed back to the bed. He curled up on top of the plush coverlet and hugged his knees to his chest. A piece of himself that he had always hated was smiling back at him from the wall, but he couldn't bring himself to cover the portrait again. He closed his eyes, and the last thing he thought before falling back into fitful sleep was how much harder it was now that he knew who she was.

* * *

_"I'm just going to open this window, okay?" Sunlight flooded the room and Nala blinked in the sudden glare, holding up one hand to shelter her eyes._

_The tall, rough-looking beorc who had the rare honor of being allowed inside the royal villa turned and looked at her carefully. He squinted one pale blue eye and she squirmed uncomfortably. "Well?" she finally asked, after several minutes of scrutiny had passed._

_"Beautiful," he said with a boyish grin and a wink. He hummed something under his breath and bent down to set up his easel._

_Nala wrinkled her nose in irritation. As if it wasn't bad enough that her father was making her sit for a portrait, she had to endure this man as well? Certainly they could have found an artist with better manners, or at least better grooming. His face was rough and unshaven, and he hadn't even bothered to comb the mess of sandy brown hair on top of his head. It curled in every different direction, and she found the one piece that fell over his forehead particularly annoying._

_"How long is this going to take?" she asked, one foot already tapping impatiently on the marble floor._

_"Hmm?" The artist poked his head out from behind a window-sized canvas that he was struggling to mount on the easel.  
"That depends on you, princess." His face disappeared again and he made a grunting noise as the clasps locked into place. "There we go."_

_"What's that supposed to mean?"_

_He straightened and fished a rag out of his pocket to mop across his forehead. "Do you know why your father hired me?" he asked conversationally._

_"You're changing the subject."_

_"Am I?" He smirked and gave her a sidelong glance. She remained silent and glared back at him stubbornly. "Well, it's because I'm the best. Not the best painter, mind you. That would probably be Ewan, or well, maybe Andreas. But when it comes to portraiture, there's no one better than yours truly." He slapped his chest proudly._

_Nala snorted. "You must be the rudest human I've ever met."_

_"Beorc," he corrected, bending to fish around in a case that was filled with small pots of paint._

_"Whatever. I still don't see what this has to do with me."  
_

_"Oh, yes. I was getting to that, wasn't I?" He produced a palette and several long, slender brushes that he stuck into his mouth to free his hands. "You see," he said, mumbling slightly around the wooden handles, "the reason I'm the best is that I never paint a subject until the moment is right."  
_

_"Until the moment is right," Nala echoed dubiously. "And when would that be?"  
_

_He stood and carried an armful of paint pots over to the easel, where he carefully placed them into a set of reservoirs that was attached to the wooden frame. The brushes went in an adjacent holder, and he set the palette down on the ground.  
Finally, he picked up the small stool he had brought, and dragged it around the easel to set right in front of where Nala was sitting._

_"That," he said, plopping down on it and grinning up at her with an expression of maddening patience. "Is the part that's up to you."  
_

_She blinked. "You're really serious, aren't you?"  
_

_"I never lie, princess." Nala sighed and shook her head. She had the feeling this was going to be a lot more difficult than she expected._

* * *

When morning came, Kurthnaga was already on the veranda, watching the sky. 

It looked like it was going to be an overcast day, and he wondered vaguely if it was going to rain while he scanned the cloudscape for signs of Gareth. He was contemplating taking wing himself when the sound of the door behind him startled him out of his reverie.

"Good morning, Soren," he said, turning to look at him. "Did you sleep well?"

The sage stepped up next to him and placed his hands on the railing, which was still slick with dew. "Not really," he admitted. Kurthnaga noted that he was back in his usual robes.

"Oh? Was the bed not suited to your needs?"

Soren looked up at the sky, then shook his head. "I think I dreamt of her," he said distantly.

Kurthnaga turned and looked at him in surprise. "Of Nala?"

"Yes." Ruby eyes flickered, then disappeared beneath thickly-lashed eyelids. "I found the portrait in my room."

"...I see," the prince replied. "Are you..."

"I'm fine," Soren responded quickly. He was surprised to find that it was actually half true. Somehow the nervous feeling he usually carried around was being replaced by a strange, calm vacancy. "Was that her room, too?"

Kurthnaga closed his eyes, a painful expression passing over his features. "It was," he admitted softly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have put you there."

"And that painter, Thomas?"

A wan smile appeared on the prince's face. "Yes. He was her husband."

A salty breeze passed over them, rustling the treetop canopy below. Soren looked down at the tangle of leaves and branches, still puzzling over the vision from last night's dream.

"Honestly, it didn't even seem like she liked him," he said thoughtfully, after several minutes of silence had passed.

Kurthnaga gave him an astonished look, then started to chuckle softly. "She didn't," he said. "She hated him from the moment they met."

"So what happened?"

The young dragon quirked an eyebrow. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Soren sighed. "I asked, didn't I?"

Kurthnaga chuckled. "Fair enough. Well," he said, stretching and scanning the sky one more time. "Shall we go inside, then? It really is beginning to look like rain."

* * *

They wound up in a plush sitting room, where several overstuffed wing chairs were arranged around an ornate stone hearth. A silent servant came in and arranged a fire, lighting it by some means Soren didn't see and would probably be better off not knowing. He settled into the chair closest to the blaze and looked into it while Kurthnaga poured himself a glass of sweet-smelling liquor. 

"Would you like some?" he asked, holding up a thin crystal bottle. The ruby liquid inside glimmered in the flickering firelight.

Soren shook his head. "I don't drink."

"Oh? That's a shame." Kurthnaga capped the bottle with a diminutive clink and carried his glass over to where Soren was sitting.

"I don't think so. Alcohol just clouds the mind and diminishes the senses."

The dragon prince smiled and curled up in one of the large chairs. "I think that's precisely why so many enjoy it," he remarked. "I can have the servants bring you something else, perhaps?"

Soren shifted. "I'm fine, really." He felt irritated at the delay, like a small child anxious to hear a story.

Kurthnaga sipped delicately, then set the glass down on a nearby table. "All right. I'm sure you're ready to hear what I have to say. I'm just... trying to make certain I'm ready to say it." He sat back and looked into the fire, long tendrils of dancing flame reflected in his amber eyes. "You dreamt of Nala and Thomas?"

"I did. She was... he was getting ready to paint her. Is that how they met?"

He smiled distantly. "Yes. Father hired him from the village. He was renowned for his portraiture. It was said that he used his considerable skill as a magician to infuse the paintings with the very essence of the subject."

Soren frowned. He'd never heard of such a thing. "Is that true?" he asked skeptically.

Kurthnaga raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "I don't know. It may have been magic, or it may have been genius. But that portrait..." he closed his eyes. "To those that knew her, it's like a slice out of time."

There was a moment of silence. "...She seemed happy," Soren murmured.

The prince smiled gratefully. "She was, when the portrait was painted. Thomas made certain of that." He gave a small laugh, as if remembering a joke he heard a long time ago. "But it took a while to get there."

"How long?"

"Weeks. They were two of the most stubborn people I have ever known. I think they managed to spend days at a time locked in that room, without ever making progress on the painting."

Soren found himself smiling a little, despite his usual propensity not to. "He was stalling?"

Kurthnaga chuckled and shook his head. "I don't think so. He kept saying that the moment wasn't right. Father was not pleased, of course. He didn't understand why he was paying a man to not paint."

"So why didn't he just find someone else?"

"Because Nala asked him not to."

Soren blinked in surprise. "Why? I thought she hated him."

"She did. But it had become a game to her. She wanted to win the little competition they were having, so of course it had to come to a natural conclusion." He looked nostalgically back into the fire. "She figured as long as Thomas wasn't painting her, she was winning. So they talked, played cards, performed whatever diversion she could come up with. She never got that Thomas had already gotten the better of her."

"How so?"

Kurthnaga smiled and turned his gentle gaze on Soren. "It was never about the painting. It was about her. You see, Thomas chose some aspect of his subjects to be the focal point of their portrait - for some, it was elderly wisdom, others, youthful innocence. And for Nala..."

Soren sat back, realization dawning on his face. "It was love."

"Yes. It was love."

Soren let out a long breath that he hadn't even been aware he was holding. "So he wouldn't paint her until she fell in love with him..."

"And the whole time, that's exactly what she was doing." Kurthnaga chuckled and brushed back a piece of his hair with one hand. "It was the first time I ever saw anyone get the better of Nala."

"But he married her."

"Of course. He had been in love with her from the moment he laid eyes on her. Like I said, it was never about the painting."

For a long time, Soren said nothing, just went over it again and again in his head while he stared into the waning fire. "...That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," he said at last.

Kurthnaga laughed. "People will do crazy things for love."

Just then, the heavy double doors to the sitting room opened inwards, and two very soggy figures crossed the threshold, oblivious to the water they were dripping all over the carpet. Outside, the sound of heavy rain could be heard beating against the walls of the house. Kurthnaga got to his feet, his nose wrinkling slightly in distaste.

"It's good to have you back, Gareth, but couldn't you have at least changed first?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," the red dragon replied coarsely. "He insisted on coming straight here."

"Indeed. Well, allow me to extend my welcome to -"

"...Ike?" Soren asked quietly, almost in disbelief, as he stood from his chair. The figure behind Gareth was hooded and dismally wet, but two impossibly familiar blue eyes smiled at him from that shaded face.

Kurthnaga fell quiet and took a step backwards, motioning for Gareth to do the same. Soren and Ike just stared at each other for a long time, communicating everything wordlessly in the divide that meant nothing to them at that moment. Somehow, one or the other of them crossed the room and they wound up in a tight, desperate hug.

"Soren," Ike finally managed to say, pulling his hood down with one hand. "I, uh... I'm all wet..."

"I don't care," the sage breathed, his ruby eyes closed tightly against Ike's chest, and all the rest of the world forgotten.

"I smell like pegasus..."

"I don't care," Soren echoed.

Ike's steady breathing faltered. "I'm glad you're okay," he said quietly, and seriously.

A very small smile came to Soren's lips. "Me too," he responded. He looked up then, ruby eyes searching Ike's face. "And I think... we have a lot of catching up to do."


End file.
